Kissin' Krakowski
by The Constable
Summary: From the moment he saw her, he knew he'd never forget that red kiss and those hazel eyes.  Donny/OC
1. 1939

1939

It was raining in Paris. The sky was a solid sheet of dull gray as fat droplets of water fell from the heavy clouds. Everything moved in slow motion across the slick pavement, everything was in black and white. For the moment, the city was beautiful; more so than usual, or course. What made other places lifeless and stifling made Paris glisten and shine. The rain washed away the scum and dirt of the town and left life in its wake. It momentarily masked the dread of war.

That was how Donny felt up until he had to jump into a frumpy woman's path to avoid getting hit by a wall of dirty road water, kicked up by a car going much too fast down the Rue du Bac. The woman heaved her large coat, adjusted her umbrella, and shot Donny the dirtiest look he'd ever gotten from a woman that wasn't his Aunt Tilda (the devil's mistress) before continuing her frumpy way down the darkened sidewalk. Donny rolled his eyes and entered a cafe on the corner.

It was warm and golden inside, with a polished wood bar and red upholstered stools and booths. All around him people were speaking French, and he tried to understand, to pick up on their conversations with what little French he knew, but it was pointless, and he gave up. But, the record player in the corner was playing lovely accordion music, and Donny was instantly cozy. Of course, no one in the entire cafe even knew he had stepped into their little bubble of warmth and pastries. He knew, had any of them turned around, they wouldn't have seen him anyway. He didn't fit in with these French people and their luxurious lifestyles and their coffee and their poodles. He was grungy and kind of dirty and poor and American and Jewish. Donny Donowitz was invisible.

Which gave him the perfect opportunity to seat himself wherever he pleased. He quickly slipped into the back of the cafe, the section with the best windows and the least people and the most ashtrays, but was really in no hurry to sit down. He was fishing around in his trouser pocket for a cigarette when he saw her, sitting at a table by the window, drinking coffee and reading _The Great Gatsby_. There was a lit cigarette perched in the ashtray in front of her, the smoke curling gently off of the smoldering end and floating up, up, up to the top of her book before fluttering and disappearing like an elusive moth.

She sat so beautifully in that chair, her ankles crossed daintily and only the rounded toes of her red high heels touching the floor. Her dress was navy blue and polka dotted, and from the pin-tucked sleeves came slender arms and from the rounded neckline came a protruding clavicle and a small letter _D_ on a slim golden chain. (Unknowingly, Donny's eyes lit up when he spied her necklace, for once in his 22 years of life believing in the fates.) Her enticing red painted lips were twisted in concentration, and her dark eyebrows were knotted, focused. He couldn't see her eyes, but he could see her wild brown curls spilling from a red satin ribbon. That was _all_ he could see for a moment, just that unruly mane that somehow captivated him into wanting to actually woo this girl instead of just asking her to have sex with him. Which was kind of how he wooed women, but whatever.

Donny, who of course thought himself charming and devilishly handsome, invited himself to sit at the table across from her, leaning on one elbow and cocking one dark eyebrow, burning chocolate brown holes into her forehead with his stare and willing her to look up at him, he was just oh so curious as to the color of her eyes.

"Could I bother you for a cigarette, _mademoiselle?_" Donny said, putting his seven word French vocabulary to work.

The girl didn't so much as glance up from her book, but she scoffed and said, "No," and yes! She was so unmistakeably American and Donny wanted to bite his lip and squeal like an eight year old girl. But then he remembered that he was supposed to be suave, and suave men don't squeal like eight year old girls. He mentally shook his own hand and thanked himself for catching his mistake before he made it; that was almost a disaster.

"Really?" Donny pressed, drawing out the word. "'Cause you look like you've got a few stashed somewhere." He gestured to her slowly burning cigarette, still untouched, sitting in the ashtray. And then she looked at him and he caught sight of the most sinful hazel eyes he'd ever seen, and he knew then that he'd never forget them.

"Look, buddy," she spat. "Can't you see I'm busy? If I wanted to be bothered I wouldn't be sitting alone, now would I?"

Donny nodded and ran his tongue over his top teeth, trying to come up with something else suave to say. This girl was so obviously from New Jersey; she had that kind of attitude that Donny knew all too well from the girls back home in Boston. (And of course the accent was a dead giveaway.) Back home, he knew how to counteract the Boston girls – either mumble and nod and pretend to listen or turn around and walk away and pray that they don't notice. But he had to watch himself when it came to Jersey girls; they were a breed all their own. Like feral cats.

"Yeah, okay," Donny said, restarting the conversation before the girl got up and left. "Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot here." He stuck out his hand for her to shake. "I'm Donny Donowitz and it was totally your fault."

The girl smiled mirthlessly and shook Donny's hand so hard that he writhed in his seat and let out an awkward strangled groan. Then she said, "I'm Dinah and I think you're a pig."

Donny tried to laugh, but all he could think was_ oh sweet mother my fingers are broken._ Instead of saying it out loud and ruining his suave guy impression, he opted to ask,

"So Dinah, is there a last name that goes with that?"

Dinah, who had begun to read again, looked up and said simply, "Nope," before looking back down at the page. Donny sighed. This was going nowhere. He pulled a cigarette and a lighter from his pants pocket and lit up, blowing smoke in Dinah's direction. They sat in silence for a good five and a half minutes, Dinah reading and taking the occasional sip of her coffee, and Donny smoking his cigarette and watching the rain through the window. He was surprised she let him stay there at all. And so he dashed his suave guy routine and stated a simple fact;

"That's a great book," he said, and when Dinah looked up, it was without hostility in the depths of her large hazel eyes.

"You've read Fitzgerald?" she asked him, those eyes squinting ever so slightly.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Donny replied, a boyish grin starting to slip its way in.

Dinah shrugged and set her book down. _Hallelujah._ "I don't know," she said. "You just don't look like the bookish type, I guess."

Donny's grin was now in full swing. "Well you don't really know me at all, now do you?" he said, and he saw just the hint of a smile coming through on Dinah's red mouth.

"Oh, but we've only just met," she said, "And you've only just started to be less piggish."

Donny let out a barking laugh, and Dinah cracked her secretive smile, finally. "You think you're so clever, don't you?" Donny said, and Dinah shrugged her little shoulders and nodded. He went on and asked, "And why were you so opposed to me earlier? Why so giggly now?" he asked her, and she leaned forward and whispered to him,

"Because I hate suave men." She brought her coffee cup to her lips and took a sip, her eyes never leaving Donny's. He was struck. She continued.

"And I could tell you were faking it. But I'm liking you much better now that you quit the whole 'let me try and impress you with my great muscles and my brooding stare' thing. It gets so tiresome," she finished.

"Oh yeah, I know what you mean," Donny agreed sarcastically. "Chicks use that on me all the time. Let me tell ya', some of their muscles: really not that great." Dinah laughed. Her eyes squinted slightly and her mouth opened and the most beautiful sound came out, like she had angels living between her vocal chords and they sang the Lord's praises whenever she laughed. It took Donny a minute to compose himself. It took Dinah a minute of calling his name and waving her hand in front of his face for him to compose himself.

"Tell me about yourself," she was saying, and finally, after who knows how long, she picked up her cigarette from out of its ashtray hell and brought it to her lips.

"What do you want to know?" Donny asked. Dinah took a drag off the cigarette and blew smoke in his face, teasing him on the word

"Everything."

"Well," Donny started, "My name is Donny Donowitz, I'm twenty-two years old, I'm from Boston, I'm...you know..." He looked around warily, making sure the section of the cafe they were sitting in was still empty before beckoning Dinah closer and whispering, "Jewish."

Her eyes widened and she whispered back excitedly, "Me too!" Donny grinned again and had the sudden urge to kiss those fabulous red lips, they were just so close, but refrained from it when Dinah leaned back and said, "Continue, continue," with a wave of her hand.

"Well," Donny said again, clearing his throat and leaning back himself. "I'm a marvelous baseball player, my mother makes beautiful lasagna, I think you're very pretty, and I do not, ever, pretend to be suave." He finished with a sideways grin, and then there was that laugh. The angels were singing, Jesus is born, hallelujah, pass the bread.

"What about you, Dinah no-last-name?" Donny asked, putting his dwindling cigarette out in the ashtray. Dinah did the same.

"Ah," she said, folding her arms on the table and leaning forward. "Well, my name is Dinah, I'm from New Jersey, I'm 21 years old, I love red lipstick, I hate suave men, I think you're rather charming, and my cat died last month."

Donny could do nothing but blink at her, and when he finally spoke, he could say nothing but, "I'm sorry about your cat."

Dinah waved it off. "It's alright. He was twenty years old anyway, so it was only a matter of time. I've gotten over it mostly," she said, but there was a hint of sadness in her voice.

"Hey, Dinah," Donny said, his tone careful. But then he thought, _what the hell, _and went for it. "D'you wanna...go over to my place? We can – I don't know – talk about your cat. Or something."

Dinah smiled. "Or something," she said, and then she winked at him. It was a playful wink and she winked it at him. It was like a dream.

Donny stood up and held out his arm for Dinah to take hold of. She closed her book, put it in her purse, tossed a few Francs on the table, shouldered her bag, and then easily slipped her arm into his. They grinned at each other before heading out of the cafe and onto the wet street, arm in arm, step for step in the direction of Donny's tiny apartment.

* * *

><p>The thing about the apartment was that it didn't really belong to Donny. He was squatting, yes, but it was kept in the family, so he didn't think it was too bad. It wasn't that his cousin didn't <em>know<em> that Donny was living in his apartment during his stay in Paris. (He was gone for a reason, right?) He just didn't know that Donny had been living in his apartment for as long as he _had_ been. (Six and a half months.) But that wasn't the point. The point was, Dinah no-last-name was the first and only girl that Donny had ever brought and ever would bring to his cousin's apartment. It was more or less a cause for celebration, but he was too fixated on Dinah unbuttoning her dress to really celebrate anything other than what was going on directly in front of him.

When he finally kissed her, he was sitting on his cousin's bed (he tried not to think about that part of the set up) and she was standing between his knees, her dress unbuttoned and her slender fingers curling in Donny's dark hair. His rough hands were on her hips and he kissed her expertly in the dark, rainy gloom of an apartment that didn't belong to him.

He reluctantly pulled away from her for a moment to take off his shirt, and when her face reappeared, she had her arms behind her head, unclasping her necklace.

"Wow, you really do have great muscles," she commented idly, smiling lazily down at him, and he leaned up and kissed her again while reaching behind her head to take off the necklace for her. He'd barely placed it on the bedside table before Dinah's lips were on his once more and he was being shoved down onto the bed by a pair of strong little hands on his shoulders. The two were laughing as they laid next to each other amongst the sheets and pillows, Dinah's curls splayed out around her and her mouth smiling. Donny touched his forehead to hers and closed his eyes before edging Dinah's unbuttoned dress off of her shoulders.

* * *

><p>When Donny awoke the next morning, it was still dark and stormy, he was naked in his cousin's bed, and he was, most disappointingly, alone. The only thing left of Dinah was a blood red lipstick kiss on a napkin, her gold chain sprawled halfway under the bed, knocked off of the bedside table and forgotten in her rush to leave, and the haunting image of her hazel eyes seared into Donny's memory. Other than that, she was a ghost.<p>

* * *

><p><em>So, there we have it. Part numero uno. A few things to apologize for: 1-excuse my lack of accents in the dialogue. I tried my best to make their speech a lot less formal and cleverly funny than I wanted to, more blunt, I guess. I, as usual, said all the dialogue out loud to myself with (massacred) accents to test it, but it really comes down to the fact that typing accents makes me uncomfortable. Sorry for that. <em>

_2-my abuse of line breaks. I have an addiction to those annoying lines and I like to think they're dramatic and interesting. Whatever. _

_3-just a heads up, I get all my foreign language info from Babel Fish, so if it's not accurate when I possibly use it in future chapters, that's why. _

_SO with that out of the way, wish me luck, leave a review, questions comments manifestos. Don't be mean, or comment on my terrible writing style, I know it's awkward and jumpy, but I'm just getting over a three month long bout of writer's block. It was ridiculous. _

_XOXO, The Constable_


	2. 1942

1942

Donny Donowitz felt the feather light thwack of the letter _D_ against his sternum as he beat a Nazi officer to death with his baseball bat. Someone else's blood flew up and splattered on his cheek, but all he could feel was the thwack of that charm and all he could hear was the cracking of sturdy wood against a fragile human skull.

When he was finished and what had once been a Nazi was now just a pile of bloody, broken person bits, Donny straightened his back and dragged his bare arm across his sweaty forehead, pushing back his dark bangs. He surveyed his work, and then turned around to face Lieutenant Aldo Raine where he was seated on a small incline covered in dead leaves. Donny looked to his leader, almost asking for approval. _Am I a monster?_ his dark eyes asked, and Aldo Raine gave Donny a slow bob of his head, his thin mustache quirking up on his fond smile that said _I approve of you. You are not a monster. _He liked the Lieutenant because of this.

Donny left the destroyed German officer in the middle of the leaf covered clearing and watched from a distance as The Basterds had their way with the remaining soldiers. They shot one in the back and carved a swastika into the forehead of another, but Donny had already done his job. He set his bloody baseball bat against the stone wall of the tunnel in the side of a large hill, home to a set of train tracks that looked as if they hadn't been used in years. He sat down on a patch of dead grass and ran his hands through his sweaty hair, rubbing his tired eyes. It had been a while since he had a proper night of sleep, but he wasn't complaining; he lived for The Basterds. He lived for killing Nazis.

Donny's calloused fingers idly trailed down to fondle the small golden charm at his collarbone. The thin chain was long enough for him to wear around his neck, and he picked up the charm and ran his fingers over it, tracing the letter _D_ without looking at it. _If only she were here,_ he thought. Somehow he knew, he just _knew_ that she would approve of this. She would understand why he beat people to death with a baseball bat, of all things. It had been three years, but he would know those eyes anywhere. He liked to think she thought the same about him. He liked to imagine that she'd heard of The Bear Jew, and that she knew it was him, and maybe, just maybe, she loved him for it. But these were all maybes and what ifs that Donny came up with late at night and that he couldn't stop thinking about for the rest of the day. No one knew about Dinah no-last-name, and no one ever would.

"Come on big boy, get up," came a distinct Tennessee drawl from above, and Donny looked up into the face of the Lieutenant. "We're movin' out."

"Already?" Donny asked, but hauled himself up from the ground and grabbed his bat anyway.

"Yup, got the coordinates of the next outfit from the little fella, the one that cried," Aldo said in conclusion before walking off, taking long, casual strides across the clearing.

Donny quietly said "cool," to no one and then looked around at his surroundings and saw that, indeed, The Basterds were moving out. The newly carved Nazi soldier had scampered off, too frightened to do anything but run away with his tail between his legs. The entire Nazi outfit had been slaughtered and scalped and the bodies lay scattered around the clearing, the officer a distorted mess of his former self right in the middle of it all; a clear message to any that stumbled upon them. Donny must have been sitting there for longer than he thought.

So he shouldered his baseball bat and headed in the direction of his brothers in justified murder.

* * *

><p>The moment Dinah set foot in Paris, old memories came flooding back to her and her knees nearly gave out in the middle of the crowded train station. Her younger sister had told her that her memories would fade with time, that <em>it was only a one day long encounter, how could that have altered your life any?<em> and ending with a _weirdo, good Lord. Bring me some pudding, won't you?_ But it had been three years and still her thoughts were as alive as they were that same day; clear and vivid as ever. She saw his smiling face as if he were standing in front of her, heard his laughter and turned around, seeking it always. She could still feel his rough hands on the backs of her knees, on her thighs, pushing her dress from her bony shoulders. She would never forget Donny Donowitz, and somehow she knew he'd be perfectly okay with that.

She walked off of the platform with a strange feeling of lightness in her stomach, and she chalked it up to hunger. Train food was still terrible, nothing had changed there. Dinah's nude colored high heels clicked along the granite floor of the train station as she made her way out, suitcase in hand, and she hailed a taxi once she was standing on the sidewalk. She was drenched in sunlight in Paris this time, and she immediately flashed back to gray skies and heavy, angry raindrops hitting her as she and Donny ran across the Rue de la Victoire, jumping in all the puddles accidentally on purpose. She barely registered the taxi driver shouting in French.

"_Mademoiselle, où vous devez aller_?" _Miss, where do you need to go?_

Dinah quickly got into the taxi and told the driver, "218 Rue de la Tombe-Issoire, _sil vous plait."_

The driver took her to her destination, a charming little apartment complete with peeling wallpaper and hideous curtains, and Dinah looked out the window and watched the French women stroll past as if nothing was wrong, as if there was no great war looming over them like the shadow of a rain cloud. They were all so impeccably dressed in their silks and furs, while Dinah was nothing in her little red dress and her curls, constantly afraid that a German officer would stop her on the street and find out that her name wasn't Charlotte Bourdon, her mother did not come from France, and she wasn't actually going there to live with her pregnant sister. She could keep up rather well with pretending to be French, having taken six years of the language and becoming very fluent, but everything was a lie so she could go back relatively undetected. Fake papers, and all that, you know, just to be safe.

When the car stopped outside the apartment, Dinah paid the driver, politely refusing when he offered to help her get her bags. Then she stood on the sidewalk and looked up at it; this was where she lived now. No, she thought, this was where Charlotte Bourdon lived.

She climbed the stairs up to the second floor, then to room 16 B. There were no people in the hallways, no signs of life at all, except the stray cat that lingered by the door to 17 B. Dinah quickly unlocked the door with the set of keys she'd been sent by her older brother, who'd been the one to get her the place in Paris, and then closed and locked it behind her once she was inside. When she turned around to survey the place, she could honestly say she wasn't surprised. The only furniture she had was a mattress on the floor. The walls were bare, the rooms were empty, the apartment was naked, and so Dinah took a deep breath and plopped herself down on her mattress. She then set her suitcases down in front of her, popping the latches on one and opening it, and from underneath mountains of folded dresses and linen pants and a pair of flat shoes, Dinah pulled out her father's Smith & Wesson model 10 revolver.

* * *

><p>For an entire week after she arrived at her new apartment, Dinah went to the cafe on the corner and sat at the same table. For seven days she did this, reading a book, smoking a cigarette, and sipping on a cup of coffee, nearly all day, at the same time, every day. Somehow, she hoped that Donny Donowitz would be there, lurking somewhere about the streets of Paris, and she hoped he would find her again the way he had the first time. But, somehow, she knew he wasn't, and she knew he wouldn't. And it took her two more weeks to come to terms with that fact.<p>

The boy was like a disease, addicting and infectious and all-consuming, but Dinah still couldn't figure out why she'd left him.

* * *

><p><em>So, this one doesn't have nearly as many words as the last one. Whatever. Long chapters really aren't my strong point. Enjoy it anyway, please :)<em>


	3. Paris, France

Warm blood was splattered on the dark brick wall of the alley way. Above, the black sky was littered with tiny, guilty stars, glittering in the morose darkness. Laughing. The body was slumped on the dirty ground – where he belonged, the bastard – with a good sized bullet hole through its chest. It still radiated warmth. It still oozed life. It made Dinah sick. She could feel the hot blood all over her, staining her hands red and her dress criminal. The toes of her high heels were at the edge of the slowly seeping pool, and she backed up into the opposite wall.

Dinah had just shot a Nazi soldier. _No_, she thought, _Dinah has just murdered a Nazi soldier._

As much as she hated the Nazis and all that they did to her people, she had to admit that what she'd done was wrong. They would surely find her now. She could just see it: she would be home in her (still) terrible apartment, and the Nazi officers would break down her door and shoot her with their machine guns until there was nothing left of her. She shuddered from more than cold. She felt that it was the right time to cry, to play the self defense, damsel in distress card that she never really got to use often, but the tears wouldn't come. She simply had no feelings. The only thing she felt was relief that it was nearly pitch dark out and she could slip away without being noticed with the warm pistol tucked safely away in the pocket on her bloody dress, but not before holding her breath, leaning down, and planting a red lipsticked kiss to the dead soldier's cold forehead.

After a week and a half of sleeping in the forest, Donny was in desperate need of a shower. The brief scrubbings of dried blood in a stumbled upon river didn't really do it for him anymore. He longed for a scalding stream of water down his back, through his hair like sweet slender fingers, and soap, some soap would be nice. He was getting rather tired of being covered in dirt and other people's blood. He'd heard Utivich muttering that it "made him kind of feel like a man." The Lieutenant had snorted, Donny had laughed, Stiglitz didn't really talk much, and the others hadn't heard. It was safe to say that the poor kid went as red as a beet.

But that wasn't the point. The point was, Donny had pummeled all the Nazis he had the energy for. His limbs ached, he couldn't sleep, and all he wanted was a shower, a bed, and a warm body to curl up next to.

He was beginning to consider the possibility that he'd never find her again.

Laying on her mattress on the floor, wrapped in sheets and staring at the yellowed ceiling, Dinah realized that Donny Donowitz never cared about her. The flat was surrounded in Paris sunshine streaming in through the dusty window, but Dinah was shrouded in shadows on her mattress, consumed by her thoughts and her saddened heart. It took her a moment to recognize that it was breaking.

But, who did she think she was? She was just Dinah to him, that girl he found in a Paris cafe and took home (and quite possibly never forgot about) who left him in the morning. What was she to him? Nothing. Just a simple, last-name-less Jersey girl who left him a kiss and a necklace.

"Which I want back, by the way," Dinah said aloud to no one, and let the deafening loneliness crush her under its weight.

A week later, Dinah killed her second Nazi. She'd found him stumbling around behind a tavern, drunk off his little Nazi ass, and so she took her pistol and shot him in the heart, just as she'd done the first, only this time it was with less nervous shaking and distressed tears later in her apartment. No, when she murdered this soldier, she was completely in her right mind, she knew exactly what she was doing, and she didn't feel the least bit sorry about it.

And, of course, she kissed the poor dead soldier on the cheek with her blood red lips and left him behind the tavern for the owner to find in the morning.

It was when she shot the third one, two days later, that she decided to start stealing their weapons. She pointed her father's gun at the soldier, unwavering, right in his stupid face, and smiled as he asked her in broken English;

"W-who are y-y-you?"

Dinah pushed the nose of the pistol between the soldier's eyes, sliding through the sweat on his forehead, and said;

"I'm Dinah Krakowski, I'm a Jew, and I'm going to kill you now."

She knew he didn't understand all of what she said, but it didn't really matter that much. She kind of liked thinking that he would die confused, in the middle of the night in a dirty alley way, much like his Nazi comrade a week before.

And as she pulled the trigger, releasing a single round into the soldier's head, she briefly thought, _"I'm becoming just like them. I've turned into a monster." _But then the soldier was slumped against the brick wall, and when Dinah Krakowski pressed a red kiss to his still warm cheek, she knew she'd done well. She grabbed the soldier's rifle, all the extra ammo he had on him, and disappeared without so much as a _danke shoen_. She had the fleeting feeling that Donny would be proud of her.

But that feeling was dashed soon after, as she suddenly reminded herself that she didn't care.

Once again, Dinah found herself alone in her apartment, sitting on her mattress, wrapped in sheets. She now had three guns in her possession; a Gewehr 98 rifle, a Luger P 08 handgun, and her father's Smith & Wesson. She sat cross-legged on the edge of her mattress and stared at her prizes, all spread out in front of her, and marveled at her skill. She had four tin boxes filled with enough rounds for each gun to kill each and every soldier in six Nazi outfits.

Over the course of two and a half weeks, Dinah had managed to keep her comings and goings from her neighbors, not that she had any. She was thoroughly convinced that she was the only person who lived in the crummy apartment, besides that stray cat that still lurked outside of 17 B. Smuggling weapons hadn't been difficult at all, and, surprisingly, neither had actually committing the crime, either. By now she figured that the Nazis knew that there was someone killing their soldiers and leaving their bodies behind with a blood red kiss, and that they just didn't know who. She was just waiting for the inevitable surge of fear that would hit once they all realized what was after them.

But, Dinah wasn't dumb. It wasn't like she went around spray painting her name all over the walls of France. She covered her tracks quite well; she hid her weapons in a hollow in the wall, she made no friends in Paris, and she never wore red lipstick outside anymore. No one that saw her ever suspected anything, and Dinah liked it that way.

The Inglourious Basterds suddenly found themselves in Paris. There they were, on the outskirts of a city swarming with Nazi soldiers, looking like a band of dirty, ragamuffin, gypsies (which they were, if they really thought about it) wandering out of the forest with no money, no food, no concept of the language. They were pretty much fucked, to put it lightly. They'd have to kill every body to get through the place.

To make it worse, Donny had suddenly become rooted to the spot with a strangely glazed look in his dark eyes, and no promise of food or hot women could rouse him from his stupor. He was having flashbacks. Being back in Paris, hell, even _thinking_ about being back in Paris, had turned Donny into a memory zombie, and no matter what he did, he couldn't shake it. He tried to picture dead puppies, but that just made him think of the tragic tale of Dinah's cat. He tried to imagine his grandmother in lingerie, but that just made him gag, and also recall a particularly funny joke Dinah had told him. It was tragic like Morpheus' death (the poor cat). He couldn't be in Paris.


End file.
